


Little Golden Age

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Early Work, F/M, M/M, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Textual Ghosts, Unhappy marriages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1306402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And what about Fingon's wife?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Golden Age

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from Silmarillion Writer's Guild. Originally posted in July, 2011.

######  **[Little Golden Age](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=1334)** by [Agelast](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewuser.php?uid=395)

**Summary:**

And what of Fingon's wife? 

  
**Categories:** **Characters:** Fingon, Gil-galad, Original Characters  
Challenges:  None  
Genres:  Drama  
Warnings:  None  
 **Challenges:**  
 **Series:** None  
 **Chapters:** 1 **Completed:** Yes  
 **Word count:** 2624 **Read:** 352  
 **Published:** July 23, 2011 **Updated:** July 23, 2011

**Story Notes:**

In  _The Silmarillion_ , Fingon is the father of Gil-galad, and it's great because then there's an uninterrupted lineage of High Kings of the Noldor with devilishly bad luck. But, of course, where there's a son, there's got to be a wife, somewhere. (She doesn't even get a name, alas.) Now, when Fingon's wife does appear in fics, she's basically the Ann Veal of elvish ladies ("Her?" the reader sighs, casting longing looks Fingon and Maedhros. Could they not just make out or declare their abiding affection for each other --) But I, personally, do not see why this should be. I've tried to make her interesting. Perhaps Gil-galad survived so long because he had a sensible mother. Stranger things have happened. _Especially_ in Middle-earth.

 

>   
> _Great was the lamentation in Hithlum when the fall of Fingolfin became known, and Fingon in sorrow took lordship of the house of Fingolfin and the kingdom of the Noldor; but his young son Ereinion (who was after named Gil-galad) he sent to the Havens._  J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Silmarillion_ , pg. 154.   
> 

  
  
The last look was the hardest. Ereinion was a small spot on the horizen – a dark blot against the white marble of the harbor. He had maintained the proper kingly demeanor through the whole proceeding, a stiff upper lip and carefully chosen words – only a slight tightening of his grip gave him away. Cirdan stood next to him. To him she looked, and gave an unspoken plea: _Take care of him!_  It was a request without much hope, for Ereinion Gil-galad was quite grown up now and quite the master of himself.  
  
But Cirdan nodded, and she felt a surge of relief.   
  
Finally, she gazed at her son, and instead of the boy who needed protection more than anything – she saw a man, tall and commanding, a King as sure as the stars. “Be brave like your father,” she said, knowing that her voice shook, but continuing anyway. He nodded, outwardly sober – as was only right, given the situation. Still, there was a spark in his eyes, and she rejoiced in seeing it. She leaned in close, so only he could hear what she said next, She leaned in close, so only he could hear what she said next. “But do not forget to be like sensible your mother.”   
  
His booming laughter startled several seagulls and woke one or two discreetly sleeping courtiers.   
  
They parted with affection, as they have always done.  


*    *    *  


She watched the horizon with rapt attention. So far, only cloud and sky and sea and the slow mingling of the three could be seen. Idly, she discovered that she lacked that famous sea-longing that was said to strike her people. Instead, she looked long at the sea, and it seemed to her that the sea looked long at her.

_The Undying Lands! Elvenhome! Aman of legend... And of bitter remembrance._

Once, she had asked Fingon, “What was it like, Aman?” She had been very young then, as tender as she had ever been, her face peering close to her new husband. Fingon stilled, and she saw with relief that he was taking her question with the seriousness that it deserved.

“It was bliss. Every day like the height of summer, sweet, slow, and never-ending,” he said, his eyes far away. 

Anoriel, named truly, a child of the Sun, shivered a little, wondering at her husband's memories. Even when he described the light of the Two Trees, she could not imagine how such a thing could be...

“Then why leave?” she asked, her voice deliberately innocent. He did laugh then.

“Because it was terribly _boring._ ”

She swatted him with a pillow and they collapsed into bed, ready again for what lay ahead. 

She found that she was gripping the smooth wood of the railings very hard. Letting go, she examined her hands, still roughened by hardship and long years of work. One could forget that she had been a queen. A half-forgotten one at that. 

She stared ahead. The land would come again.  

*    *     *  


A crowd of faces peered at the newborn prince, the first child to be born in Barad Eithel in over a decade. The babe rested sedately in her arms, not bothered by the intense scrutiny. Occasionally he yawned, a wide and toothless gape. His sleepy eyes pulled shut- they were still newborn blue – though there was reason to believe he would eventually have the steady gray-eyed gaze of his forebears. A shock of black hair, still untrimmed, framed his pale little face. She cupped her hands gently over his little ones. It was a perfect fit. 

_Ereinion._  
Scion of kings.  
My son. 

The chatter of the courtiers interrupted her thoughts. They were playing their favorite game – to guess at who the baby most resembled. It was a game of flattery and hidden barbs. 

Barbs aimed  _mostly_ at her own weary head. 

“He has his grandsire's mouth,” said a lord from the east, who had never seen Fingolfin's mouth close up. She had, and it seemed to her that her father-in-law would rather be run through than be caught yawning in public. 

Another took up the thread and said, “He has his father's eyes.” His father's eyes were not often shut so determinedly. Fingon hardly slept at all, and very rarely in the same place as his lady wife. She frowned at that thought, true though it was. 

And then another piped in, “Such fine dark hair, just like his father's!” Now _that_ was true enough, though she had hopes that when Ereinion grew up, she could persuade him not to be so married to one style.  _Gold-threaded braids sound very well, my dear. But it is more trouble than it is worth._

“He has Finwë's nose, I can see that even now!” 

She barely managed to to stifle a scream.  _My poor child, they would have you be comprised of bits and pieces of every member of this wretched family, alive or dead!_

All this loud talk woke the prince, and he was most displeased. He wailed loudly; his cries echoed through the fortress walls. The crowd moved back and began to disperse. She cooed at him, and indeed, did her best to soothe him. With a lullaby that was too old for words, she quieted his sobs. Her dark hair curtained over them. Her gray eyes sparkled with light.

She could hear the last remarks of the courtiers, drifting up from the courtyard. “There is nothing of his mother in the babe at all!”   


  *    *     *  


  
It was a political marriage, of course. Such a thing should have been unheard of – for did the Eldar not marry for love? Was not marriage supposed to last for all of eternity?  _How could she spend eternity with a stranger?_ The thought alone made her flesh crawl. She shifted in her chair, and tried to give her father her most appalled look. Her father, glowering, dismissed such concerns with a flick of a powerful hand – he was a practical man in all respects, and at times a hard one, too. 

“We have not the luxury for such things, daughter,” he said sternly. “Living outside the Girdle of Melian means more than uncertainty and danger. It means that we needed as many allies as we can get, and there is no doubt that these Lechind are strong and powerful.” 

“Aye, and arrogant too,” she could not help but add. That earned her a stern look from her father. 

“Well, they are better allies than enemies, no matter how the fool Thingol feels about them,” he continued. 

“Father! Guard your tongue!” she gasped,  for her father had never expressed such disloyalty to the King of Doriath, even in close company. 

Her father shrugged, and then took her hand then and said, “Listen closely, dear heart. The king of the Exiles -- indeed, he is their High King, wishes for you to wed his eldest son – his heir! You've heard stories about that Prince, no doubt, he is a redoubtable hero. Such stories that could set any maid's heart aflutter.” He gave a her shrewd look, and she returned to him an impassive one. He continued, remarking, “You would be a princess. And you have seen how well they adorn their women. You would have no shortage of jewels.” 

“I am not so greedy,” she said tightly. 

But her father persisted. “Meet him, and talk to him. I think he will please you.” 

She shook her head, and asked, “Why is he yet unwed? His younger brother was married long ago!” Her father dismissed those concerns – _he had not had the time, perhaps, nor the inclination to wed_  – what was important now was to for her to meet him. 

To talk to him.

She did. And found him agreeable. He had flourish. He was handsome, but not unreasonably so. He laughed easily and conversed with her as if they had know each other for their entire lives, though in lightly-accented Sindarin. 

_Fingon the Valiant._  Oh, certainly, she had heard tales about him. He was a hero after all, in whose wake tales flourished. She supposed sighing maidens did too. 

“All life is a risk,” he whispered as they slowly walked together down the garden path, the chaperon dogging their step at a discreet distance. Ah, the light in his eyes was almost too much to bear. 

“Take this risk with me?” 

She found herself nodding, and saying, _yes, yes, yes._

 

She married him, of course. 

(Practicality ran in her blood.) 

 

*   *    *

 

 

Their union was heralded, of course, as a triumph, a union of the Noldor and the Sindar. A new alliance for a new world – 

A first she thought the trouble was in her imagination. For he treated her well, more than well, like a dear friend, always welcome, even if they unexpectedly turned up in your bed. 

_Morning!_ He would say sunnily, and kiss her on the top of her head. 

The trouble was... Well, it was not exactly coldness, only an absence of warmth. Of fire. Of passion. Finally, she decided to venture to speak to him, to clear away what stood between them. She did this reluctantly, for she hated to distress him more than he already was – see, there were troubling reports from the frontier (there were always troubling reports from the border) that he shoved away to make room for her. 

“Are you unhappy?”  
“Are you unwell?”  
“What can I do? Would you like a new necklace, I know that there was a new shipment of pearls from the Falas...” His mind was tickling away, to find the answer to the problem, as yet unexpressed. She laughed, and shook her head. “No my lord, I am content at the state of my coffers.”

“Ah. Then?”  
“Could we not talk? As husband and wife. I know that before my mother was lost to us, she and my father would often speak in the evenings, about their day, about the family, their work...”   
“Of course, my parents did that too, before they separated. Now. What shall we talk about?” 

(They found that they had nothing to talk about.)  
   


*    *    *  


  Of course, the story emerged, as stories do. His cousins, she had met at the wedding. There were friendly Finrod and chilly Galadriel, who did warm to her, eventually. There were Angrod and Aegnor, both frank and bold, both of whom reminded her strongly of her husband. They grinned and offered to tell her wild tales of their shared childhood in Aman, where all was bliss. Orodreth had come too, and she felt a tug of sympathy for him, for he was the odd man out of the lot – and seemed used to being completely overpowered by his more charismatic siblings, so much so that he simply seemed to disappear altogether.   
  
She felt tempted to give him a pat on the shoulder, though that would certainly violate some sort of court protocol, so she didn't.   
  
No, the story did not have to do with those cousins, but with the  _other_  cousins. The dangerous ones. (Well, they were all dangerous, more or less. But some were more dangerous than others...)   
  
The Feanorians, a curse be upon them. (And it was.)   
  
A cousin, in fact. One. The well-shaped Maedhros.   
The rescued, the saved.   
 __  
The one that Fingon loved.  
  
For the curse was on Fingon too   
(And her. The curse was upon her too.)  
  
 

*    *     *

 

The next time he went to Himring, she asked to come along. Reluctantly, he had agreed. She found the journey uncomfortable – though by the expression of impatience in the men's faces, it seemed they paused more often than was their wont. That could be traced to her unexpected presence, though it was treated with bland good humor on the most part.

Himring, the Ever-cold, and cold it was, and cold indeed was her reception. Maedhros the ever-vigilant turned out to be ever-grim as well.  _He is occupied, and burdened with many troubles_ , her husband murmured, his eyes downcast. She nodded and her eyes followed the tall Prince as he left the hall, his missing right hand tucked into his cloak. But there was another song, sung by Maglor, with the incomparable voice. Her attention was diverted, and she did not see Fingon leave her side. But – her stomach had twisted and churned. 

_Morning sickness, although it is well into the evening!_

She got up unsteadily and waved away her ladies. "It is nothing, only morning sickness," she said with a weak smile. She managed to get to the chamber she shared with Fingon before her breakfast came heaving up. After vomiting neatly in the chamber pot, she cleaned herself –  _ah, what a mess!_ \- and laid on bed until she drifted off to sleep. She had troubled dreams – all fire and blood, though it took no prophet to see that they were all teetering at the edge of disaster. 

Voices, low-pitched and angry, echoed through the quiet passage. They were speaking in her husband's tongue, and there was one voice so very known her and another... 

She sank deeper into the bed. 

Away, Fingon made a noise that sounded like an assent. 

“Well, my father is delighted with her.”   
“She does fill that willowy, dark-haired beauty part well.”   
“But still...”  
 _“Still...”_

She tried not breath too loudly, and listened very carefully.

As a confirmation of long-held suspicions went, the whole thing was not very illuminating. There were whispers, too faint to make out. Endearments. An embrace, muffled, but to her all too painfully distinct. Eventually, they pulled apart, and the footsteps retreated in opposite directions. Silence settled into the room. 

She froze. 

_Everyone knew, all along. And no one thought to tell her before..._  Before  _everything._

And burned. 

   


*     *      *

 

Later, when the fall came and there was nothing to do but flee, she was bundled off with Ereinion, to seek refuge with Cirdan's folk – her people, more or less. The boy squirmed and yelled for his father, and soon enough Fingon appeared, haggard and clothes rumpled. He looked like he had not had a night's sleep in ages. (He hadn't.) She resisted the urge to push a lock of hair from his eyes, and instead trained her eyes to the front, her hands gripping the reins. 

In a low voice, he said, “A small party is less likely to attract attention.” She could only nod assent, as the boy turned to his father, leaning as far toward him as possible. Ada, ada, ada, he chanted, his hands stretching towards Fingon. Fingon lightly touched the boy's hand, and gave him a small smile. 

There was warmth in his voice when he said, “I send forth my best warriors with you.” He nodded to Ereinion. His mother gave a regal nod, and said, “For that, I thank you.” 

The boy watched all this carefully, and asked, “Ada, are you really not coming with us?”

Fingon shook his head. “I cannot, I must stay here. You must go with Nana and protect her. Can you do that?”  
“Oh, yes!” The boy's face blazed with excitement. 

“Will I get a real sword now?” he asked quickly.

They exchanged a quick glance before she nodded slightly. Fingon grinned, and gestured to the pack animal in the back. After they listened patiently to his eager pleas, the boy was allowed to see his new sword. He was guided away by warrior, and watched like a hawk. 

He experimentally swung the sword around, surprised by its weight. 

A silence settled over them, amidst the bustle of the courtyard. Fingon was the first to break it, saying, “I wish we had gotten to know each other better.” 

He held out his hand – she hesitated for moment before grasping it firmly. 

“As do I.” 

__  
I shall see you again?  
Perhaps on an another shore, my lord.   
Perhaps.

 

**End Notes:**

Finwë 's nose is an inside joke ... With myself. (Hmm, note to self, start more inside jokes with other people.) It's just that when I was sketching out Maedhros, Fingon, and Finrod, I noticed that they all had the same nose. Finwë's nose!

The title is taken from the excellent Wolf Parade song, "Little Golden Age". Which was on heavy rotation on my iTunes as I wrote this. The lyrics seemed apt. 

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=1334>


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